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Archive for July, 2023

Last year, on the anniversary of my son’s death, I wrote a poem for my daughter, “The One Who Thrives.” It celebrates all the ways she has learned to show up in times when it has been very, very hard. On this eve of her 15th birthday, I honor Vivian–how she continues to meet what is difficult and all the ways she shines. She is one of my heart heroes.

Here’s the video (also below) featuring music by Steve Law, art by Marisa S. White and the video itself is by Tony Jeannette. Share it with anyone who has been through a difficult time and has found a way to flourish … it’s for the ones who blossom “when blossoming doesn’t seem possible.”

I chose “The One Who Thrives” to be the poem that came out on video coincidentally with the new album, DARK PRAISE, fourteen poems of “endarkenment,” honoring what the dark offers us and how it grows us. How it invites revelation, receptivity, sensualness, playfulness, connection, a chance to see the light of others, and of course, a chance to bloom in surprising ways. Steve and I will continue to offer a new video from the album every other week till December.

It’s THRILLING to share the album with you. I am in awe of how Steve Law created music for these poems–so intuitive, so in conversation with the poems. Now the poems feel naked without the guitar when I read them! The music itself and his sensitivity as he plays make for a stellar collaboration. And the poems mean so much to me, spanning the gamut from wildly playful to heartbroken–but never without hope and always always in love with the dark. 

Download DARK PRAISE anywhere you find music: itunes, spotify, deezer, youtube music, more. Add it to your playlists. Share it, please. You can also choose to buy it on Bandcamp, and help us defray the many costs of making it. 

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I am suddenly wildly sure
my life is very possible.
I am not asked to leap off cliffs
on a motorcycle or land a parachute
on a runaway train. Not expected
to pickpocket diabolical masterminds.
Not forced to drive a car backwards
down a long set of stairs in a crowded city
while handcuffed to someone else.
In fact, all I’m asked to do
is have a few conversations that,
upon reflection,
don’t seem so difficult to have after all.
Just one word in front of another.
No guns, no swords, no knives.
No one chasing me with a pipe.
All I need are a few well-placed adjectives,
like sorry, like grateful.
A few true nouns,
like connection. Like love.

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There’s a moment when I’m touched
by the sky inside the sky, the song
inside the song, the apple inside the apple.
 
It’s as if each bit of the world is itself,
only more so, and it reaches in
to trace the scaffolding of my life,
 
charging me with its utter purity,
its incontestable presence, as if to say
This, this is what it is to be alive,
 
and I hum with it, pulse with it,
glow with the wonder of it—
Rain. Rhubarb. Sand. Blood.
 
This. This. This. This.
This. This. This.

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            with thank you to Joi Sharp
 
 
It’s like the scent of rain
after a month of drought—
the way it rises up and fills the lungs
quiets the body
and softens the mind—

that’s what it’s like
when, after grasping
and spinning and reaching
and clenching, at last,
exhausted with my own fear,

I lay my hand on my own heart
and see through my thoughts
and practice loving
what is here beneath my palm:
this frightened woman

and the life that lives through her—
not a single promise I will be safe,
but when I press my open hand
into the beat of my anxious heart
what was dry becomes loamy,

what was cracked becomes rich,
and a faint sweetness
tendrils through me like incense,
soothing as a lullaby
that opens in the dark.

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One Paradox


 
 
sitting at the gravesite
even the summer air
is wildly alive

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Ascent


 
There is a long ridgeline
below the towering spire
of Lizard Head summit
where the alpine clover
grow in vast pink mounds
and their sweet scent
suffuses the high, thin air
with a perfume so strong
not even today’s wind
could blow it away.
For long moments we were held
by the fragrance
the way insects
are preserved in amber—
it stilled us completely.
We belonged to the beauty.
With deep, intentional breaths
we pulled the floral sweetness
into our beings
until everything was clover,
clover, clover.
 

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From across the stack of bottled water
the man who lost his beloved wife
and the woman who lost her beloved son
recognized each other and stopped.
Can I hug you? he said. And they met
in the center of the aisle.
They stood there long moments,
heart to heart, while all around them
the carts continued to roll
and the shoppers shopped
and the checkers checked
and the strawberries were ripe and on sale.
And though no one took their picture,
no one noticed them at all,
in that moment their hearts,
already expanded by grief,
expanded even more.
They became their hearts.  

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            for Shawnee, my step-daughter, on her 40th birthday
 
 
How generously she let me into her life.
How we sang songs about Cowboy Joe in the car
and read books out loud on the couch.
I remember falling on the floor laughing
about a silly joke that wasn’t really funny,
except it hit us just right in the right moment.
To this day we laugh about Chesterfield.
I remember river trips and watching her
snowboard in a straight line down
the black diamond run, her sure path
the only track through the powder.
There are gifts we never could expect—
like the way a girl can make a home in our hearts
and never leave, her life like a flower
that someone else planted, and yet
I have been lucky enough to be part
of the garden soil that helps her grow.
And my god, she is beautiful as she grows,
beautiful as with tender hands,
she plants new flowers of her own.

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Confession to Silence


 
I say I love you,
and then I start singing.
I say I want you,
and then I fill in
each moment
with conversation,
with stories, with music,
with the tap, tap, tap
of my antsy foot.
Silence, I come to your altar
with hymns, with prayers,
when all you ask of me
is that I come to you.
With this confession,
already I feel you
spreading through my body
like the scent after rain,
my cells opening to you,
you filling them with all
that glorious nothing.

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He was a big man,
and I loved the way
he would carry me—
swoop me up
in his strong arms
and float me around
the room.
Now that he is gone,
I carry the weight
of his love—
the enormity—
only to realize
he is still
carrying me.

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We sat in the grass
on my grandparents’ lawn
and watched fireworks
above the lagoon,
and as the sky glittered
gold and red and silver
and the humid air boomed
with the rapture of celebration,
my family a chorus of awe.
And the fireflies put on a show
of their own, and no one I loved
had died. How magic it all was.
Oh, how we ooohed, we ahhhed.

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Fearless

One day, perhaps, I will be as fearless
as I was last night in my dream—
when I went careening over the high cliff,
and as I entered free fall, I thought,
wow, this is it, you really did it this time—
and as the air rushed past my face
I thought If these are your last few moments,
can you choose to enjoy them?
In every other dream of falling,
I fell into fear, a deep clenching.
But this time my arms unfurled full length,
my legs spread, my eyes widened,
and I gave myself to the falling.
God, I was free.
When I landed face first on a rooftop,
I was, for a time, motionless, bruised,
breathless, and then, sweet miracle,
thrilled by the fall, I walked away,
so much life in every step.

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For Four Hours

Not that I was lost
as I climbed through
the rocks and meadowrue,
I just didn’t know
where I was going,
but every step felt
like a small arrival
and no one step
felt like a place to rest;
the trail was sometimes
too faint to trust
and my legs were tired
and dusty and I was
sweaty and sticky,
while on my face,
I could feel it,
the truest smile
opened like sky
above the horizon
as I moved higher
through each switchback,
the town below
smaller and smaller,
then gone.
 

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Let me remember this night
dancing in the deep woods—
the patio our stage
the stars like sequins
the full moon a spotlight
and every song a love song
when sung with love
and my god, did we sing,
after all that talk of heartache,
yes, until our voices were near gone,
did we sing.

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Poetry by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Music by Steve Law

Art by Marisa S. White, “Drift into the Unknown”

Video by Tony Jeannette “I Want to Listen to Your Absence” is a track on DARK PRAISE, a spoken-word album that honors the dark and how it opens us to creativity, passion, intimacy, revelation, dreaming, receptivity, self-discovery and connection. “I Want to Listen to Your Absence” is available for download on Spotify, iTunes, and more. The album is available for purchase on Band Camp.

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Now when I walk through the market,
I think of how someone else here
beside the stir-fry cart and the tie-dye tent
has just lost a beloved
and is hiding tears behind sunglasses.
Not knowing who they are,
I try to treat everyone with kindness.
Meanwhile the day is beautiful
for everyone, no matter how broken,
how whole our hearts. It gathers us all
in a grand blue embrace.
Part of me resists calling it a miracle.
The other part calls it what it is
and strolls through the miracle
of Friday morning surrounded by arugula
and strawberries, muffins, lilies,
and all these other fragile hearts,
all of us saying excuse me, good morning,
how are you, I’m fine.

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